Chapter 6: What He Did Before the Hearing
Three days before the custody hearing, Leo's teacher called me.
"I want you to know," she said, "that someone contacted the school yesterday.
They asked whether Leo had ever shown signs of being difficult to manage at home.
Whether he'd ever been sent to the office.
Whether there were any behavioral concerns."
My hand tightened on the phone.
"Who contacted them?"
"He didn't leave a name.
The front office thought it was a routine inquiry.
I only found out because my aide mentioned it." A pause.
"I've known Leo for two years.
He is one of the kindest, most careful children I have ever taught.
I want to be at that hearing."
"I'll tell my attorney," I said.
"There's something else." Her voice dropped slightly.
"Leo told me something in September.
I wrote it down because it bothered me.
He said — and I'm reading from my notes — 'Gideon says I'm not really his kid so I shouldn't expect the same things.' He said it very matter-of-factly.
Like it was just a fact about the world."
I sat down on the edge of the bed.
"September," I said.
"The fourteenth."
I had been in the same house as Gideon for nine months since September.
I had eaten dinner across from him, watched television beside him, believed his reassurances.
And the entire time, he had been saying things like that to my son.
"I'll call my attorney right now," I said.
Gideon came home that evening with flowers.
Pink roses — my mother's favorite, which he knew.
He set them on the counter and looked at me with an expression I recognized from the early years.
Warm.
Reasonable.
Slightly wounded.
"I've been thinking," he said.
"We should talk before this goes any further.
Lawyers and courts — that's not us.
We can figure this out ourselves."
"Can we."
"I made a mistake.
I know that.
I should have made better arrangements for Leo.
I was overwhelmed with the trip and the kids and I didn't think it through." He spread his hands.
"I'm not a monster.
I'm a man who made a bad call."
"You told him not to call me."
"I didn't want him to stress you out while you were grieving."
"You told him he shouldn't expect the same things as Roger and Camila because he's not really your kid."
The warmth left his face like a light switching off.
"Leo told his teacher that," I said.
"In September.
She wrote it down."
He was quiet for a moment.
Then: "Kids misremember things."
"She has it in her notes.
Dated."
"I want to see those notes."
"You'll see them at the hearing."
He picked up the roses.
For one strange second I thought he was going to throw them.
Instead he set them back down, very gently, and looked at me with something I hadn't seen before.
Not anger.
Not calculation.
Fear.
"You're going to take my kids," he said.
"Roger and Camila have a mother," I said.
"They'll be fine."
"And what about me?"
I looked at the roses.
Pink.
May you like
My mother's favorite.
"You should have thought about that," I said, "before you left my son alone in the dark."
